A man who had toasted me at the rehearsal dinner and called me the daughter he’d never had.

“Don’t worry about it, Dad.” And that was Flynn — my Flynn — but the warmth I’d heard for eight months was simply switched off, and what was left underneath was flat and bored.

“Two every night, and I put a little more in her soup this evening.

By midnight she won’t be able to keep her eyes open.

She won’t know a thing.”

I sat very still on the stair.